


loyalties lie in bed

by paperdragon



Series: Amidst Blood & Bone [1]
Category: Hannibal (2001), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types, Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris, The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Discriptive, F/M, Poetry, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 04:58:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4006672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperdragon/pseuds/paperdragon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘But, my dear Clarice, if I could love someone,’ he says, ‘it would undoubtedly be you.’</i>
</p>
<p>Clarice pulls him to her and kisses him. He tastes of wine, warm and sweet against her lips. She kisses him, and steals all the air from his lungs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	loyalties lie in bed

**_i._ ** **_Ecstasy_ **

Her climax washes over her like a wave, gradually built up to a crescendo and predictably gratifying. She sighs, her breath warm in the hollow of his neck. Her nails cut through the skin of his back with the force of her grip, carefully painted with nail polish.

She can feel him smile, feel his mouth curve on her forehead.

Clarice sighs again, clenches around him and pulls him down to kiss him. His breath catches and the ex-special agent sips his surprise, finds it as exquisite as always.

She presses her lips to his, keeps them there until she feels the hitch in his breath, until she feels his rhythm falter.

‘Thank you,’ she tells him, the way she does every time, her hair tucked under her head where it lays on his chest.

Hannibal smiles, presses a kiss to her temple, and doesn’t reply, the way he does every time.     

**_ii._ ** **_Anguish_ **

Jack Crawford is dead. Hannibal knows this, he checked it himself on the FBI website, amused at their indolence at keeping his old, old face as a picture.

When he comes back to where they’re staying, Clarice is washing the dishes.

It has become clear to Hannibal that Clarice deals with emotions in a different way from others. Even though he is aware of the emotional turmoil she is facing, he takes a few moments to observe her, take note of her exquisite movements on a menial task such as washing and drying dishes. Another few are used to congratulate himself on his choice.

He moves towards her. Clarice has noticed him, but she pretends as if she hasn’t. She is immaculately focused on one task: she washes a plate, wipes it, and puts it in the rack. Repeat.

‘And what exactly, are we working off today?’ he asks. There is a dire moment which Clarice takes to decide on whether to tell him. However, as always, she comes through.

‘Crawford’s dead,’ she says. It sounds like it cost her something to say it. Hannibal finds these words priceless.

That is the issue, the bones of the matter. Hannibal had almost forgotten her respect for him. Father figure, teacher, guide mere semantics.

‘Yes,’ he says. He takes the plate out of her hands and places it on the rack. ‘He isn’t coming back.’

_The grass was red in the field where he died,_ Hannibal thinks. 

‘No, he isn’t,’ Clarice agrees. She turns away from the sink, leaves the kitchen.

Hannibal stays a moment, takes pleasure in the change of air.

He follows.

 

**_iii._ ** **_worship_ **

They are walking on the Ponte Di Rialto, one of the numerous bridges of Venice. Clarice showed a yearning to see them and Hannibal took them the next day. They have just attended an opera, one of the best Clarice has ever seen. 

It is night time and the moon is in the water. Her skin is painted by liquid starlight. The moonlight is reflected in his eyes in bright silver points.

They stop for a moment. Clarice clasps his hand in one of hers. Keeps them both on the edge of the bridge.

‘Do you love me, Hannibal?’ She asks.

‘I haven’t loved anyone in over forty years, Clarice,’ He replies. He says it with the air of someone who is repeating a conversation, even though this conversation hasn’t take place before. ‘I don’t suppose I can love.’

Clarice remains faithfully silent.

Hannibal takes her other hand in his own and swipes his thumbs across her knuckles. Clarice shows no reactions, other than a sharp intake of breath.

‘But, my dear Clarice, if I could love someone,’ he says, ‘it would undoubtedly be you.’

Clarice pulls him to her and kisses him. He tastes of wine, warm and sweet against her lips. She kisses him, and steals all the air from his lungs.

_and the moon died a little each night to let her love live,_ she thinks . She blinks it away.

Clarice looks up, her gaze followed by her lover.

The sky has been transformed into a shining tapestry of stars.      

**Author's Note:**

>  **note** i don't know what this is. just something that came to mind that i needed to write. hope you all liked it. And as always, i'd love to know what you guys thought.


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